


Play the Puck

by wearemany



Series: Rookies [8]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2013-2014 NHL Season, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gags, Los Angeles Kings, M/M, Open Relationships, Rope Bondage, Trope Inversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:51:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3102776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearemany/pseuds/wearemany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don’t play the puck, play the man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play the Puck

**Author's Note:**

> Rookies ‘verse. Could probably stand alone but references these two stories most directly: [Two-Way Player](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1412338) and [Prospect](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1831597). Takes place late-ish March 2014.
> 
> Based on [this Tumblr prompt and set-up](http://dazzlingheroes.tumblr.com/post/94377918723), because what if the reason you can’t correct your teammates’ mistaken impression that you’re dating is because you’re just having super dirty hookups?

Tanner knows better than to rise to the bait when the guys are sitting around talking shit and bragging about getting laid, but there are only so many times he can avoid giving any details about his hookups with Richie before he finally had one too many drinks at the wrong time. He didn’t mean to keep talking or make it sound like it was anything more than it was, because he _knows_ , he knows it’s not a serious thing for Richie.

But that’s how they take it, Toff in particular giving him so much shit about his _boyfriend_ —and so loudly and in so many super inappropriate situations. He begs Tyler to shut up, especially in mixed company. Losing all dignity with the other rookies is nothing compared to the idea of someone telling Richie that Tanner’s walking around saying they’re dating.

When of course someone hears Toff and does tell Richie—thanks, Muzz—the only thing working in Tanner’s favor is that Richie would never deign to actually deny something like that. He rolls his eyes and laughs, but he also sort of shrugs and mumbles something about how Pears isn’t such a bad kid, and that non-denial translates back through the team—thanks, Muzz—until most of the boys are at the shrugging, none-of-our-business-anyway stage with the idea that Richie’s nailing the rook on the regular.

Tanner’s so lost in his head about it that he doesn’t think through his pre-game timing and when he comes into the hallway before warmups, there’s Richie and Carts, doing their usual silent, smirky staring routine at all the passing cameramen and equipment guys and anyone else inserting themselves into that weird sacred bubble they always seem to make.

Tanner says hey, awkwardly, and Richie nods back, solid as ever. “Sorry about—” Tanner says, and Richie says, “It’s fine,” and it sounds like he means it, like he’s not mad, like he’d still let Tanner come over and hook up and probably give him some fucking life wisdom while he’s at it.

Tanner blushes, face hot as he jams his helmet on his head.

Carts stretches down over his skates, arms splayed wide out like a huge wingspan, and when he rises back up he’s laughing, and laughing, and laughing. “Ruined,” Carts says, and Richie laughs too, but it’s not mean so much as one more long-running inside joke Tanner will never understand.

Richie smacks Tanner on the shoulder, and there are other boys in the tunnel now starting to make some noise, bouncing around, ready to go.

That’s it. Time to play.

-

In the dressing room, Tanner stops in front of Richie’s stall. “Sorry,” he offers again.

Richie pushes his sweaty curls back and says, “Don’t worry about it, really.”

“Yeah,” Muzz says as he walks by. “We fuckin’ won. Shut up, Pears, at least until you get nailed for whatever you did in video review.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tanner says, but he keeps his voice light. He’s standing too close to Richie to draw even more attention to himself, and Muzz is the one who dug this hole in the first place.

“ _You_ shut the fuck up,” Muzz tosses back over his shoulder. “Go whine to your boyfriend and leave the rest of us some fucking peace.”

Tanner tucks his chin into the damp neck of his Under Armour and sighs. “Sorry,” he says.

Richie’s mouth lifts in a small, sympathetic grin. He knocks his knee out until it hits the inside of Tanner’s leg, just for a quick second, and then shoves Tanner away with a soft push to his hip.

“Later,” he says, low.

-

Tanner catches a ride home with Joner, like always, because _later_ could mean tonight or next week or just a nice way to say _gimme some fucking space_ and it’s always a little tough to tell with Richie.

On the 10, in that same glut of traffic they always hit on the interchange for the 405, Joner says, “Why didn’t you just tell Muzz the truth?”

Tanner thunks his head against the passenger window. “Yeah,” he says, “that’s a great idea. Like, ‘No, Jakey, me and Richie aren’t dating, we just fuck around sometimes. Just like me and—you know, all these other guys ever since after you left Manch. Sorry, your invitation must’ve gotten lost in the mail.’ Yeah, good plan. Solid idea.”

Joner laughs a little, doesn’t press his luck. So now everyone thinks Tanner and Richie are dating, or they officially do not give a shit. All the ways he and Toff and Veysy and Joner spent the season justifying their little game of musical beds sounds fucking crazy if they try to say it out loud, so he’s not going to rush to clarify matters any more.

He can only hope once they actually get into the post-season everyone will be too busy to give a shit. And that he gets to play. God, he wants to to be on the ice for the playoffs.

-

They eat dinner at the house, watch some TV, and when Joner heads to bed Tanner takes Uber over to Richie’s. It’s later enough.

Richie says, “Huh.” But he steps back so Tanner can come inside, and he follows when Tanner walks upstairs without waiting to be asked. In the bedroom, Tanner turns around, suddenly unsure.

Richie’s resting against the open door, rubbing at his mouth. “How sorry are you?” Richie asks.

Tanner takes his shirt off.

Maybe he’s got this wrong and he should be asking what Richie wants, how Tanner can make it up to him, apologize in a more useful way than just saying he’s sorry again. But Richie’s got other ways of getting what he wants, and after hearing Joner talk about what the other side of fucking like this does for him, Tanner’s started to think Richie lets him come back _because_ of how fast he’ll go to his knees, not despite it.

He takes his socks and shoes off, then his pants and underwear.

Richie shoves off from the door frame, strides over to Tanner and pushes down on his shoulders until he’s sitting on the end of the bed, presses down a little longer until Tanner nods. He’s not going to move until Richie says.

Richie strips off his t-shirt as he crosses to the dresser, opens a drawer and pulls out the leather cock ring and bundle of rope, same stuff they’ve used before. Richie drops the cock ring in Tanner’s lap.

“You do it,” Richie says, and for a second Tanner’s not sure who he’s supposed to put it on, but then Richie steps back to finish stripping, staring while Tanner’s hands shake to comply. He gets the snap on the second try, leather cool and snug around his balls, palms sweaty as he tries to figure out if it’s even possible to tie his own hands together, just in case that’s what comes next.

Richie’s got the rope in his hands, tugging it a little, almost unconsciously, like he’s weighing the idea. Then he drops it on the carpet beside Tanner’s feet.

“Keep your hands on the bed,” he says.

Tanner says, “Okay.” Richie reaches out fast, holding Tanner’s face where he must have been frowning or pouting or in some other way expressing his disappointment with that plan.

“You came here,” Richie says, voice gentler than his grip.

“I’m sorry,” Tanner says, looking right at Richie. Then again, looking down, quieter, “Sorry. I swear I didn’t tell people we were—”

“Shut up,” Richie says, but nicely. “You’re more obvious than anyone I’ve ever met.” He rubs his thumb against Tanner’s lower lip. “You’re always—you look with your mouth,” he says. “Jesus.”

Tanner’s jaw falls open and Richie shoves two fingers in, pressing down on Tanner’s tongue.

“That’s gonna get you in trouble,” Richie says, and Tanner closes his lips and sucks, Richie’s knuckles bumping hard against his teeth. Richie pushes in farther, rough calluses scraping the inside of Tanner’s cheek.

Tanner closes his eyes. This is what he wanted. This is what he was asking for.

Richie pulls his hand back. “So fuckin’ easy,” he says.

Tanner blinks wetly. Richie’s palming his own dick through his shorts, slow, contemplative.

“Stay here,” he says, and walks out.

He comes back holding a dinged-up puck.

“Open up,” he says, and feeds the rubber disc into Tanner’s mouth.

Tanner bites down, stretching his lips around the edges. It smells like the inside of an equipment bag, tastes like he licked the locker room. He feels full, but not uncomfortable.

Richie leans down to retrieve the rope from the floor, then moves quickly behind Tanner to pull his hands back and tie his wrists together.

Tanner sits up straighter, shoulders back, the puck balanced on his tongue and held lightly with his back teeth. He focuses on breathing through his nose in even pulls, on keeping his arms loose.

He knows now that the urge to push himself, to struggle against his restraints, whatever they are, is always lurking just around the corner. He doesn’t have to go chasing that moment when he breaks. It will come soon enough, and it’s not his call when.

Richie stands back from the bed a couple feet, just looking, until Tanner nods. Then he shoves his shorts down, kicking them off his ankles, and crowds in close. His cock bumps against Tanner’s chest.

“You go down so easy,” he mutters, one hand trailing over Tanner’s arms, his shoulders, the back of his neck.

Tanner tilts his forehead to Richie’s ribs, counting each breath in and out, as Richie touches his upper back so lightly he could almost believe he’s imagining it.

“It’s like you’re just waiting, always waiting, always ready.”

With Tanner’s head down like this, spit pools in his lower gums, and he bites down harder to keep the puck from slipping loose.

“Figured you’d have Joner put you down tonight,” Richie says, and Tanner whines and shakes his head slightly, rubbing his cheek against Richie’s abdomen. “For some reason I thought you two figured your shit out. I know you’ve been trying at it, anyway.”

Richie pushes Tanner’s head up and angles it back, holding tight to Tanner’s hair as he bends in to bite at Tanner’s jaw, suck on the curve of his throat, nip sharply along the ridge of his collarbone. Richie’s nose carelessly knocks at the puck, pushing it in farther.

Tanner can’t answer with his mouth stuffed full, and even if he could he can’t explain how things with Joner got maybe a little too serious too fast and they both backed off. Linden’s mostly back east, Toff’s been at the house more nights than not, and everything that started off stupid and silly has become a constantly shifting target, a pressure that’s steady only in how it never fully disappears no matter what new shape it takes.

He swallows around the puck, tries to arch up as Richie drags his cock across Tanner’s nipple, leaving a sticky trail that makes Tanner shiver as Richie huffs out a laugh.

“You’re all too fuckin’ eager for it,” he says. “Gotta stop treating it like a goddamned race, like somebody’s gonna win.”

Joner’s quiet in bed, so focused on figuring out how to fuck the breath out of Tanner, and Tanner’s never told him outright to talk more, if that’s even a thing you can expect somebody to just start _doing_.

The only other place Richie runs his mouth like this is on the ice, calling plays, bitching at refs, egging on the other guys. Tanner loves that he’s Richie’s only audience right now, that he’s earned his undivided attention, that for every ounce of control he gives up he gets back this unfiltered glimpse of a guy he trusts so much and still isn’t sure he understands at all.

Richie’s thrusting against him more steadily, seeking out skin and friction anywhere he can reach, and Tanner’s mouth waters more, like it doesn’t care that he’s already feeling half-drowned in his own spit.

“You’re doing real good,” Richie says, and Tanner can’t keep in a whine but he also can’t beg Richie not to be so goddamned nice about it when he’s struggling to get a good deep breath in around the hard rubber wedged between his lips. He wants to hold it together, and that’s actually easier if he’s anxious about what else he can take, if he’s worried he’ll go down too soon.

“Don’t fuck it up now,” Richie adds, like he can read all that on Tanner’s face anyway, and reaches down to wrap his palm around the leather cock ring, squeezing hard.

Tanner gasps, and the puck almost pops out before he clamps down at the last possible second, sucking it back to where he can grab on with his teeth. Tears push at the corners of his eyes and he counts to ten, trying to pull his breath back into a steady rhythm.

Richie digs his stubby nails into Tanner’s thigh and the sharp prick of pain helps draw his focus back, away from his own dick and back to that smooth, calm compliance. He can hold the puck in his mouth for as long as Richie thinks he needs to. He can do this.

Slowly, Richie spreads his palm open until it’s just a warm, heavy weight on Tanner’s leg.

Tanner nods. He’s ready for whatever comes next.

Richie says, “Okay,” and after a quick assessment, adds, “On your knees now,” and guides Tanner down carefully off the bed and onto the carpet.

He spreads his legs a little, sitting back on his heels. He can flex his hands where they’re tucked into the small of his back, but then Richie plants one foot on each side of Tanner’s legs, pressing Tanner back against the mattress. A tight stretch burns through his shoulders, a welcome, insistent throb that crowds other distractions from his mind.

Richie slaps his cock lazily against Tanner’s cheek, grips his jaw to hold him steady and then shoves one finger into the stretched out corner of his mouth, right alongside the puck. Tanner gags a little before he remembers he can swallow, he can breathe, Richie’s got him.

“Let go,” Richie says, tugging around the curve of the rubber. He levers the puck up and down with his thumb in a tiny rocking motion, says gently, “Come on,” until Tanner figures out how to loosen his jaw so Richie can slide the puck out entirely.

He pokes at the inside of his cheeks with his tongue. His mouth feels empty, used and loose, and he’s calm in that way where he can’t be sure if ten minutes have passed or an hour. Richie rubs a finger lightly around his lips, staring down at Tanner like he’s thinking about kissing him.

Tanner turns his face, breathes hot on the head of Richie’s cock where he can just barely reach if he cranes out his neck.

“Please,” he says, or tries to. He clears his thick throat and says it again, and Richie swears, grunts out a low “fuck” and twists closer.

It feels so good, so familiar and real to finally have Richie’s cock in his mouth, warm and silky and alive with blood pumping just beneath the surface. He flushes, realizing there’s no way he’ll be able to smell a puck and not think of Richie pushing it between his lips, of the mingled flavor of Richie’s cock and the flat, hard rubber he can still taste on the back of his tongue. It’s difficult enough to keep his mind off sex unless they’re in the full throes of a game.

“Fuck,” Richie says again, louder, and pulls back just in time to come all over Tanner’s chin and neck. It’s maddeningly almost impossible for Tanner to lick any of it off himself with his hands still bound.

Richie’s balanced with one hand on the mattress behind Tanner’s head, chest still heaving, and Tanner can lean forward just enough to lick down the cut of his abs, along one of the twin scars that angle down along his groin. He has no real idea how he’s convinced Richie they should keep doing this but he’s pretty fucking grateful to know what Richie sounds like at his most incoherent.

“Yeah, yeah,” Richie says now, patting Tanner’s hair, “I get it, you fucking rookie, you’re ready for more.” Tanner bites his hip and Richie laughs, standing up straight. “Christ, you’re a lot of work.”

Tanner would feel worse about that, but he’s the one covered in spunk on his knees with his hands tied behind his back. Now that the fear of failure has faded, he can’t ignore how hard his cock is, the way it throbs under the slick leather. But he still can’t do anything about it.

Richie braces his weight on Tanner’s shoulder and reaches down to unsnap the cock ring. Tanner’s hips uselessly thrust forward into the air, Richie neatly dodging any contact while still pinning him in place.

“Wait,” he says, and Tanner reaches for any ghost of the patience he had with the puck in his mouth, clamping his molars painfully together.

Richie hauls him up, holding him by the hip as the blood rushes back into his calves and feet.

“Uh-uh,” he warns as Tanner tries to press their bodies together. He turns Tanner slowly until he’s facing the bed, kicks his feet apart, and then shoves him hard face-first onto the covers.

The soft, scratchy contrasts of the comforter’s fabric lights every nerve on Tanner’s upper body but before he can even enjoy it, Richie squeezes the rope around his wrists and then lets go, stepping back.

“You can hump the bed,” he says charitably, “but I’m not untying you, and I’m not helping.”

Tanner groans, digging his toes into the carpet so he can better angle his hips into the mattress. The only fucking thing he wants is his hand on his dick, or Richie’s, so of course he can’t have it.

“Come on,” Richie taunts, “put your back into it.” He’s smirking, Tanner can tell, though he can’t even fucking see his face, just hear his mocking voice as Tanner humps his bed, just like Richie said to.

The comforter is way too rough but he’s close anyway. Richie’s so good at this he could teach a clinic, could stand up in the locker room and draw out plays on the white board for how anyone with a firm hand and a little patience can make Tanner fall to pieces.

He comes with a terrible whine, hot face shoved into damp fabric, one shoulder feeling like it’s about to dislocate itself, sticky with Richie’s come on his chest, and the asshole actually slow claps.

“That was a close one,” Richie says, and Tanner tries to mutter an appropriately indignant response but it seems to get stuck in his throat.

Richie stretches out alongside him, skin fiery all down his side, and slips one finger between Tanner’s hands to loosen the knots. The rope slides along Tanner’s lower back and he flinches, whimpering. Richie rubs the flat of his palm up Tanner’s spine, sweet and comforting for one split second.

Then he slaps Tanner’s ass, sitting up and laughing again. “You gonna tell the boys about that?”

  
  


 

 


End file.
